Midnight Tales of a Lonely Gambler

Once again I sit alone on the couch, my husband in bed, sleeping. He's very good at sleeping. Me? Not so much.

I put another 20 into the pot. 2:45 am. Thinking I'm playing smart, I blast away. Pew pew pew! Up to 40 in no time. I have discipline, I'm going to make it up to something a little higher. Maybe 60, that'll be enough. Then I can cash out 40, leave 20, go back to bed and feel good about myself. But it slips back down. I change games. Back to 40, back to twenty. If I leave it here I can come back later, try again. Switch rooms till I get the lucky seat. But I get carried away. Of course I don't notice the new seat above me, blasting away where I'm blasting. All those kills aren't going to me.

Fool, don't play a game where all the kills are the same color! 15. 10. Stop, just come back later, play 10 cents, build it back up. 5. Shoot carefully, kill the little things, dummy. .80 oh shit. Now you can't change rooms. You need a dollar to get in... And it's gone.

I've already spent almost 300 this week. Begged for money (it's my birthday coming up, right?) just to pay the phone bills. How pathetic.

Hey, at least I'm not spending money on heroin and ice anymore. That's gotta mean something, right? Does it matter that my current addiction might eventually have a pay off? And the chances of breaking even? At this point? It would be a miracle. 

I've decided, for my birthday, I'm getting a mouse. I'll name him Succulent Victles the Great. Or maybe for the cat's birthday. He's a rescue kitty. We found him a year ago, about a month old. So it's close to his birthday too, right? Gotta ask the husband, pick a date. Won't tell him about it cause he'll hate the idea. He's totally non-violent, the big squishy cutie.

Maybe I'll time it to when he's out picking up his methadone. Not that there are any pet stores around here. And honestly, the cat's too dumb to know what to do with it before the damn thing ends up in a closet, peeing on my stuff. Sigh.

I guess I'll tell him about it. It'll be a laugh. Two lumberjack looking mofos, squeeing over the poor fucked up mousy. Don't want to give the cat a taste for fresh meat. He'll never go back to Fancy Feast after real blood. Finicky bastard.

Oh well. 3:38, time to grab some cold water. Leave eight hours of mouse footage on YouTube with the barstool pulled up in front of the TV for the cat, and back to bed. Not that I'll be sleeping, but there's plenty I could be doing with my time. So I might as well spend it lying down with my eyes closed, while it's still dark. Those airplane sleep masks make my eyes itch and my nose feel stuffy.